It was my first trip for caribou. Right away we'd seen plenty of animals. They were easy to spot far off, especially the old, chalk-maned bulls. Their blood-red antlers, fresh out of velvet, looked huge. "All look big. Don't shoot quick. Wait one day, maybe two," my Inuit guide had cautioned. For two summery days I glassed impatiently as caribou sifted past under blue skies, gobbling the tundra in their shambling, hoof-clicking march to empty horizons.